


Secret

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, M/M, Prompt Fic, Rimming, not great bondage but better than 50 shades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas keeps a secret, and reaps what he sows. And likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by Antonymmouse on Tumblr. It was:
> 
> Sastiel- "secret"

It starts with the nightmares, and he’s heard stories about the post-fall syndrome driving angels loony but he never thought it’d be this bad. Like being strapped to a chair while a black and white film of your own personal history plays on loop, and you’d never think it’s so bad but it is. There’s no sound, there’s no colors. Can’t falls asleep when you have to provide the words coming out of these characters’ mouth, you have to color their skins, you have to provide the exact hue of the sky on the afternoon of August 10, 1936 when the atmosphere parted for your wings. And you have to complete that sensation in this 4D film, you fallen little thing, cry to the heavens and beg them to take you back so you can feel the galaxy in your bones, the wind in your wings again.

So it starts with the nightmares, which leads to him thrashing awake, climaxes when his jerking leg tips a certain weight off the edge of the bed and concludes when Sam’s laptop hits the floor, screen shattering into spiderwebs and ink dripping like a squid’s just spilled its guts.

When he gets up to check, it looks relatively undamaged with the covers closed. His plan is for it to stay that way.

It works, for the first half of the day. 

Sam and Dean have just come back from breakfast run, donuts and coffee. Cas hears their hushed voices discussing a case they found in the paper, good ol’ witchcraft, from the looks of things. He’s sitting at the foot of Sam’s bed, clothed but generally disheveled, looking maybe too casual. He’s slumped into the uncreased bedspreads—same on both queens, which he might or might not have meticulously smoothed over while wondering what to do.

The donuts help wake him up.

He listens to Sam and Dean’s discussion while he ate, hyper-aware of the laptop not two feet from the bed, looking nothing but innocuous on the table. Sam is saying “but it could also be that lawyer lady, don’t forget ‘bout her, library or no?” and Dean is grumbling about all the human rights it violates to not have free wifi. Good, Castiel thinks, grinning furtively behind his Boston Cream. 

But then Sam says, “lucky for us, I asked for the password on the way in,” and reaches across the table, and Castiel chokes on his coffee.

“Wait,” he blurts, forcing the burn down his scorched throat. The brothers turn to him, Sam concerned and Dean perplexed, and Cas thinks  _shit_. “Um.” He’s never been good at improv. “Why don’t we just go to the library? I wish to. Borrow some books.”

Then Sam kinda raises his brows a minute and says, “sure, why don’t get Dean to drop you off, he’s headed towards our first witness anyway.” This is when Cas runs out of rebuttals because there are no flaws in Sam’s argument and he’s screwed, Sam’s gonna open that laptop and see the cracked screen on his three week old laptop and know that it was Castiel’s fault, and he’s going to say it’s okay even though it’s really not and that absolutely cannot happen, so he searches, and then he blurts out whatever’s first on his mind and says, more like whispers to Sam too loudly, “You see, uh, I’ve been wanting to…read further into the ‘B’ word you mentioned.”

That’s got Sam stopping. He looks lost. Dean does, too. “‘B’ word?” Sam says. “B…”

Then Dean joins in the guessing game, typical Dean. “What, borax? No? Uh, busty Asians? Bacon, burgers, boobies, bondage?” and then Cas hitches up like he just got stung in the neck by a scorpion, snaps his neck up like a marionette on a string.

Oh. That’s the look Sam gets. And then Dean throws up his hands and hollers “Whoa there little brother, okay, tmi, get your ass into the car, you’re going,” and Cas thanks whatever God still watched over him that this one was a win, his ass is saved.

But just for now. Literally.

—

It’s got him jittery the whole morning, chanting a litany of “shouldn’t have said that” to himself while Sam and Dean file through newspapers. In reality, Cas has been thinking about it ever since Sam brought it up offhand a few weeks ago. He has to admit he’s a little afraid of the idea—not afraid of Sam, no. He can’t tell what. It just nags at him, exciting one minute and frightening the next, and Cas’ feelings are nothing more than ambivalent at the moment.

But he feels it coming, the talk. When Dean leaves with enough info in his notebook, he physically shivers, but Sam looks inviting enough. Always looks inviting, and Cas is reminded of how gentle Sam has been so far and feels kind of bad for his reluctance. He feels incompetent, this part of him that can’t make peace with the adventure, feels like he owes Sam at least this much of his trust. He could make it up to him this way. Cas wouldn’t go as far as to say it’s repenting. He’s just…making amends.

Sam comes over at one point, dusts his hands off on his jeans and sits down like he means business, but he’s got a smile, and that eases Cas’ nerves a little. “So,” Sam starts, the way he should never start a conversation like this, “you’ve been…thinking about it, huh.”

Cas is glad Sam didn’t plunge right into “handcuffs okay or ropes?” and Sam can probably see that, Cas watches him stare at a drop of sweat on his forehead with fascination. Sam’s taking his time easing them into the conversation, thank God for Sam Winchester, so Cas goes for honesty and drops his head, the sound coming out of his mouth hung between defeated cry and nervous laughter.

Sam just smiles, tells him, “Cas, before anything, just understand that this is about making  _both_  of us comfortable. If you’re not—” then Cas cuts him off with a frantic wave of his hands, shaking his head fiercely. Sam waits for some kind of denial that Cas struggles to give, so he moistens his lips a second and says,

“I want this,” and realizes that some part of him kind of means it.

Sam smiles a little wider, holds up a finger like Wait, and disappears to gather a stack of books and plops them on the table.

Cas takes one and flips it open, not daring to glance at the title. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing like a kid, here in public a thirty something guy flushing at the thought of some naughty play. When his fingers fumble Sam helps him, flips to an index of all the…props, presents it to him and asks,

“Let’s cut to the chase: what are you okay with, Cas?” 

Then he reads the books in detail and kind of runs out of answers.

—

This is the part where his plan doesn’t work, the part where at around three they get back, and Cas finds Dean on Sam’s bed with the laptop open.

“What are you doing,” Cas blurts, and he makes Sam jump too. He thinks he can feel the blood drain from his face. Evidently, it’s happening, because whatever Dean sees on him he smirks at, smirks at him like he just  _knows_. But Dean says “nothing, Cas. Cleaning guns,” then Cas realizes yes, he’s doing that too, got one segment in his hand and a cloth in the other, but he’s  _got the laptop screen open_.

Sam steps forward now, groans with his hands on his hips. “That doesn’t require a laptop, last time I checked,” he says, but doesn’t move to step forward, “If you’re looking up porn, Dean, I swear—”

“Dude, what kind of a guy watches porn with his clothes on?”

Dean closes the lid while Sam holds his tongue. Cas thinks thank God, but then Dean’s gaze flits to his face and he’s cold again.

Then Dean grabs the whole package off the bed with ease, like he hadn’t noticed that the inside is _in pieces_ , carries it like always and sticks it in his pack. Then he says “Sammy, finish cleaning these, will you, Cas, you too.” Cas jumps. Dean slides a strap on his shoulder, says “Gonna borrow that for a while,” and moves for the door, and Cas wants to shout “where’re you going” but Sam gets to that first, “Dean, why are you, what—” and Dean tells him “Reasons” and slips out the door before either could catch the tail of his shirt.

Sam moves, but Cas steps forward, says “I’ll go ask him where he’s,” doesn’t even complete the sentence before he’s after him.

Dean’s leaning against the Impala like he’s waiting for Cas, still wearing a smirk, but it’s a shade softer somehow. Cas bounds up, calls out “Wait,” but Dean’s not leaving and he straightens. “Dean, wait, I’m sorry, it was an accident, please don’t tell him, what are you gonna do,” says Cas in a breath. Dean looks at him, puts a hand on his shoulder to stop.

“I called a guy,” he says, “told me he could take care of this, so just chill, okay? Go back there and tell him I needed some files or something and the disk’s full. Get back and take care of your other problems.”

Cas looks at Dean like he just saved his life. Probably did. “I owe you one,” he tells him with a wide grin before Dean gets in the car, and Dean grumbles a “hell yeah you do”, but Cas can see his proud big brother grin when he drives away.

Now the problem’s with what’s inside the motel room, and the immensity of it fractions when Sam somehow buys Dean’s shit, and cleans their guns like he was told. Cas helps him, so glad to have that noxious thing out of the room and a good distance away from them. For the rest of the night they clean guns, sort files, make calls, watch TV. Sam slumps against the headboard while they watch reruns of Buffy, and when he pulls Cas to sit between his legs, Cas complies, but not without a sigh.

Dean comes back with Pad Thai at 8 and Cas, out of a desperate attempt to distract Sam from his certainly growing concern of his prized possession, drags him off to the shower. It works. They watch TV while they eat, the three of them, Dean reading over the notes he took from the interviews today and Sam still watching Buffy, propped at the edge of the bed. At one point, Sam beckons Cas over and pats his lap. Cas gives him a look, but Sam grins, opens his arms like a welcome.

So Cas goes, and he props himself down, thighs straddling Sam’s, face to face. Dean coughs like he’s lodged something in his throat. Cas doesn’t check.

“You’re awfully clingy today,” Cas notes.

“You’re awfully acquiescent today,” Sam retorts, and lifts a chopstick wrapped in noodles under Cas’ nose. Cas has his lips pressed tight. Sam gestures.

“Sam.”

“Cas.”

There’s a moment at first, completed by Dean’s groan, and then Cas sighs, gives up and takes a bite. When his mouth closes around the chopsticks Sam virtually beams, like it’s on his bucket list to feed Cas before he died. So Cas returns the favor by extracting the noodles in a way obscene enough to send Dean barreling out of the room with a curt “I’m gonna go to the bar.”

When Dean leaves, it’s all of a sudden quiet. That’s when both of them realize that this whole sequence of events is less haphazard than any of them had thought it’d been. And now they are left with Cas spread out on Sam’s lap, nude under his slack sweatpants, and Sam with not a shirt on his chest. The atmosphere’s visibly shifted. There’s a tension now, running up Cas’ spine, there’s a flare now when he meets Sam’s eyes. It started with a nightmare, but this is where it’s all going to end.

—

Cas isn’t the most at ease with display. He’s said no to sex numerous times before nine because it’s not dark enough outside, said no to bathroom quickies because Dean might hear, over the shower, even though his morning wood’s straining against the cotton, even though Dean  _saw_ them go in together. It’s not like Sam was trying to hide, but Cas likes hiding himself. He can only take a little at a time, and right now he is not at the stage of being mentally prepared for strip teases.

But it doesn’t really matter, because Sam’s got him spread out on his bed before him with not a single part of himself concealed, his hands tied together by a towel and his eyes blindfolded by a scrap of t-shirt. He’s on his stomach, face buried into the pillow and lip between his teeth as Sam diligently licks at his asshole. He’s making these lewd noises, gasps ripped from his throat as Sam works him open with his tongue, and holy fuck is that frying Cas’ brain. Part of him, clean freak part of him, wants Sam to stop, wait, but he doesn’t really want to and he can’t, been ordered “don’t speak, know you’re good at following orders, spread your legs.” His hands are unchained, so he rests them above his head, weight on his elbows, his fists clenched. His knees are shaking, but Sam keeps pressing down on his waist like his butt’s not high enough in the air, high enough for that tongue to get in as deep as it can go.

He can’t see. He smells his saliva bitten into the pillow case, hears his own heart pounding, feels Sam’s breath on the twitching muscles of his hole. Then suddenly Sam’s got a hand around his nipple, and Cas moans, high and muffled into the pillow. He can’t see and it scares him, but it’s doing a hell of a job turning him on.

That was what they agreed to. The hands, and the blindfold. He can feel his own hips jerking against Sam’s mouth. Sam’s sloppy, not sparing the saliva, so much Cas can feel it rolling down the back of his balls. Sam’s not being clean, at all, and Cas thinks about not taking a shower the next inevitable time they did this and fucks back on Sam’s face.

“Hold still.” It’s a growl, a sex-rough voice. It’s driving Cas crazy.

He does. The muscles in his thighs twitch. His cock’s leaking all over the sheets, probably, he can’t tell anyway. He waits, breathing deeply and quietly into the pillow. 

Sam likes that, apparently. Because all of a sudden his pants are up against Cas’ naked thighs and he’s whispering in his ear, “you like being ordered, don’t you, Cas.”

Sam fingers Cas open. The lube’s cold where the heat had just been, sliding into Cas easier than ever. Sam’s got these long fingers that slip and slide past one another in his hole, brushing past his prostate so many times Cas thinks he’s going to come before they even start. At one point he thinks Sam is pouring the lube straight into his opening, wants so desperately to look, but he won’t, because Sam said no. He was starting to like this blind submission. It’s not that he’s no longer nervous. He’s just borrowing the exhilaration.

Distantly, he’s reminded of a poor broken little laptop on a table somewhere, in a mechanic’s workshop, sitting cold and alone. Then it suddenly becomes clear to Cas that he’s gotta fess up, it’s brought them to, of all places, this, and he’s gotta fess up before he lies back and enjoys this not as penitence for an accident (and surely Sam will understand, Sam’s just always taking care of them like that) but real pleasure. Sam’s just retracted his fingers when Cas mumbles against the pillow, “Sam?” and Sam whispers “shh” before Cas says it again, louder this time, and Sam stops everything he’s doing in an instant.

“Cas? You okay?” Sam says, worried, and Cas arches his chest off the bed and rolls onto his back. “Am I hurting you?” Sam reaches for his arms, voice so concerned and borderline horrified, not a trace of that dominance left, and Cas realizes, shot by a bullet, that he should have told Sam since the very beginning. “Sam?” he lifts his hands, still bound by the wrists, fingers searching in the dark. Sam’s crouched between his legs, and Cas tries to sit up. His fingers find Sam’s collarbones first, slides up his neck, his jaws, and they cup them while Sam undoes his blindfold. Cas feels the crease between Sam brows before he sees it.

Sam takes the cloth off and they don’t speak, Sam looking afraid like he thought he’d find pain in Cas’ eyes, and Cas slowing his breaths, hands still against Sam’s face. He tries to find the words, and can’t, so he headpans,

“I broke your laptop.”

Sam’s visibly dumbfounded. He leans back, pulls away from Cas hands. His brows are raised, and Cas’ kinda holding his breath.

“Oh,” Sam says. 

“I broke it in the morning, before the library, before breakfast,” Cas confesses. “I tried to get you to stay away from it, but Dean found out. He’s getting it fixed. I’m sorry.”

Sam’s quiet for a minute, and Cas searches his face for some sign of anger, disappointment, maybe. Then he says, slowly, “Then, was the library and research—?”

Cas nods. 

Then Sam looks kind of sad. Then more thoughtful than sad, and then full on panics when things click and he says, “Oh God, Cas, did you go through with this to punish yourself? Did I force you into something you didn’t—tell me you really did want—” then Cas shuts him up good by hooking his linked arms behind Sam’s neck in a sudden maneuver. Sam’s braced for a kiss, but Cas doesn’t kiss him.

He doesn’t kiss him but he leans in, and whispers in Sam’s ear. It gets Sam flushing red in a tenth of a second.

So Sam nods.

And the night ends with him punishing Cas instead.


End file.
